


hands tied up around these words

by spaceysharkchriss



Series: machine without a switch (sith obianidala au) [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Force-Sensitive Padmé Amidala, M/M, Multi, Rope Bondage, Sith Obi-Wan, Sith Padmé Amidala, Trans Male Character, anakin is trans my dudes, and u know what? obiwan isnt skinny either lmao cant stop me, butchy femme maybe?, padmé is tall and curvy as hell, shes also slightly more butch than in canon… like just enough to go by ‘sir’, yeeeeeaaaahhh just in general this is riddled with personal headcanons tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9821855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceysharkchriss/pseuds/spaceysharkchriss
Summary: Padmé smiles, and the mischievous note may just be because Anakin knows, now, that she’s a Sith, but it’s definitely there. Hell, it might even increase when she says, “Maybe I can help.”Anakin hesitates a moment, then fixates on yellow eyes with considerable determination and asks, “How much do you know about Obi-Wan Kenobi?”Padmé only grins wider.☆☆☆☆or: Human Disaster™ anakin skywalker goes looking for trouble, and winds up with two surprisingly sentimental sith datemates in the process





	

**Author's Note:**

> welp, here it is! the embodiment of all my kinks, projected onto my comfort fandom! oh boy...
> 
> (rating is for a makeout session feat. tits and a three sentence description of a 69. other than that its pretty sfw!)

“Oh _Force_ ,” Anakin exasperates, flopping dramatically onto Padmé’s couch. “You’re a Sith Lord. Why is everyone I care about a Sith Lord?”

Really, though, it makes sense to him in hindsight. Anakin recalls Padmé’s eagerness to be elected supreme chancellor- to have _that much power_ over, well, the whole galaxy. He recalls first feeling her signature in the Force on Tatooine, her aura, though he didn’t know it at the time. It was different than Qui Gon’s, that much he knew; the way it called out to him, more direct as he felt it, more ready to swallow him whole. The way it interacted with him was hushed, like a secret. Anakin can’t help but wonder- if he had said something then, could he have stopped _this_ now?

“As I recall, I’m a Sith Lord who just saved your ass,” Padmé points out, grinning brilliantly. Then she approaches him, quirks her head sideways. “Who else is there?” she teases, and even though she doesn't look jealous ( _and why would she be? There’s_ , Anakin laments, _absolutely nothing between them_ ), or even disrupted in the slightest, Anakin immediately regrets his entire existence.

“I- uh-” he tries to recover, eyes watchful as she looks for a spot on the couch not already taken up by him. She finally settles, mere inches away from his face, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Oh, relax,” she chides gently, her hand resting on his shoulder. It soon wanders to his cheek, though, and Anakin can pinpoint the exact moment his heartbeat goes off the scale. She smiles, and the mischievous note may just be because he _knows_ , now, that she’s a Sith, but it’s definitely there. Hell, it might even increase when she says, “Maybe I can help.”

Anakin hesitates a moment, then fixates on yellow eyes with considerable determination and asks, “How much do you know about Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Padmé only grins wider.

☆☆☆☆

It’s really no wonder that Anakin winds up on a cargo ship to Mustafar three days later. He had been all set to fly there himself, but Padmé had insisted he stow away with an incoming weapons order.

(“If you go in part of the Republic fleet, you’re going to be caught,” she’d said, already on her holopad making arrangements. “Besides, this is way more romantic.”

Anakin swore up and down that he wasn’t doing this to seduce _Darth fucking Venge_ of all people, but Padmé had already tuned him out.)

It’s only when he’s entering the planet’s atmosphere that Anakin realizes he has no semblance of a plan. What is he even doing? He just wants closure, really; maybe a chance to close this chapter in his life. Obviously the best way to do that is by meeting the chapter face to face on what _might_ be the chapter’s home planet (“Sorry, Ani,” Padmé had said when that came up, “but that’s classified. And since you’re a Jedi, well...”) and attempting something of a civilized conversation. They aren’t really the best at those, Obi-Wan and him, but Anakin chooses to believe that it’s because they’ve never had much of an opportunity to practice. So, he decides that he’s going to wing it.

Which is exactly why he gets captured by a troop of rogue clone troopers.

This is it, he figures, he is actually going to die in a cell on some Outer Rim planet and the only person who will notice is a Sith Lord. That’s just great.

And since he has nothing else to do but await his untimely demise, he starts thinking about the prison he’s in. The clones had let him keep his lightsaber (didn’t even search him for one), which could only mean that it’s entirely ineffective against the bars, which look like they could be made of some kind of hard light. The other thing about the cell, though, is that it cuts off a major part of Anakin’s connection to the Force. It isn't all of it, by any means, because that alone would be enough to kill any Force-sensitive. No, instead it’s just enough to keep the Force from being weaponized- shutting out everything from mind tricks to object levitation.To top it off there’s two clones standing guard, and they’ve already switched out three times since Anakin’s seizing. The cell is so tactfully made, Anakin thinks, that if it wasn’t going to be the cause of his death he would gladly shake the hand of its designer.

That is, of course, the exact moment that the designer walks into Anakin’s place of captivity and marches up to the clones outside his cell. Well, he doesn’t _know_ that he designed the cell, but he doesn't need to. Anakin feels what he can in the Force and is met with an unlawful mixture of comfort and dread as he recognizes none other than Darth Venge himself, Obi-Wan Kenobi. And oh, he looks _mad_.

He says something that Anakin doesn’t quite catch because he’s too busy screaming internally, but he figures out pretty quickly that he’d better pay attention to the rest of this conversation.

One of the clone troopers- Cody, Anakin recognizes- responds to whatever Obi-Wan’s said with, “But sir, you said absolutely _no_ trespassing from-”

“I know what I said, damn it,” Obi-Wan snaps back, “but this one is not just a trespasser, he’s a threat. He must be under close watch- _my_ close watch- so that he doesn’t do anything” he glances to the side at Anakin, who immediately averts his gaze (though not quick enough to hide that he’d been staring) “irrational.”

Cody nods and doesn't say anything else (he likely doesn’t dare to), already fumbling for the cell keys. Obi-Wan concludes with, “And besides, he may have intel that needs… extracting.” Anakin isn’t sure if he imagined it, but he thinks he sees the Sith Lord lick his lips on the last word. He doesn't have time to dwell on it though, because soon he’s getting shoved into the hands of Obi-Wan, who nods in approval at the clone’s compliance and says, “Good man.” His mood seems immediately lightened and he nudges Anakin to start walking forward. Anakin purposefully _doesn't_ take note of all the places where Obi-Wan’s body is pressed against his, and his cheeks _don't_ burn bright red as a result.

When they’re far enough away, Obi-Wan leans forward into Anakin’s ear and quips, “We simply have _got_ to stop meeting like this.” Anakin already feels sick to his stomach. This feeling is only worsened when he hears,

“I’m terribly sorry about this.”

and his head snaps up, because _wh-_

Everything goes black.

☆☆☆☆

When Anakin wakes, he’s sitting upright. He doesn't think much of this until he reaches to stifle a yawn with his hand and realizes, oh, he can’t move his hand. Can’t move either of them, actually, or his legs or his torso. _That_ definitely isn’t right, and is decidedly very un-right, in fact, so he forces himself into consciousness a little quicker in order to assess the situation. He opens his eyes again, feels around his wrists and finds them each bound by a piece of strong rope.

Oh, no.

“Oh!” a voice somewhere in front of him briefly pulls Anakin from his quickly rising panic, only to force him back into it upon recognition. “Good. You’re awake.”

“You!” Anakin shouts with a glare, as angry and fearful as a groggy voice can be. He struggles against his bondage, but gets nothing more than a shifting of his chair in response. Going about it like this will take a while. “Release me!”

The Sith clicks his tongue. “Now now, dear,” and Anakin’s stomach does a little flip at his liberal usage of pet names, “let’s not be hasty.”

Anakin glares daggers at his apparent captor, and complete with absolutely no discretion, demands, “Wh- what am I even doing here?”

Obi-Wan smiles, the expression loose and smug (and just a little bit sickening). “I could ask you the same thing, young one. I know you _came looking for me_.” Anakin feels his entire body freeze. The only way he could possibly know that is if-

Padmé.

Even though Anakin knows, now, that she can fend for herself (and may well be one of the most powerful people in the whole galaxy), he still feels an instinctive need to protect her. All he has in him to convey this is more of a struggle, which is met with an eyeroll from Obi-Wan.

“Force’s sake,” he sighs, words rolling into one exasperated breath. “She’s _fine_ , Anakin, do calm down. I didn’t touch her.” And then, sounding a bit more impressed, “Told me herself, actually.” There’s something unreadable about his expression, about the way he reacted to being accused of hurting her, and Anakin might understand it if he had any grasp of what the relationship between the two of them was. He stops moving, but nothing in his eyes looks convinced.

There’s a moment of quiet between them, then, before Obi-Wan says, “Oh, let me help you with that.” He crosses the room, removes any and all space between them. Anakin shifts away (leans, more like, considering his complete lack of mobility) reflexively as Obi-Wan first makes contact. “I wouldn't have restrained you at all, but I had to make it convincing. You know how clones are.” Anakin isn’t sure if he’s meant to respond to that, so he doesn’t say anything. Obi-Wan matches this with a simple shrug.

He then undoes his binds, each one precariously slow and thought out. He frees his legs first, and then reaches over top of him to undo his wrists from the front. Anakin still can barely move, completely helpless to the way Obi-Wan’s chest touches his. The only control he has is to avert his gaze, immediately more entranced with the cool obsidian floor of the Sith Lord’s quarters than he is with the lingering touches to his rope-burned wrists. His face has likely achieved an impressive shade of crimson, he’s certain, as Obi-Wan makes no rush unraveling the rope around his abdomen.The older man is the first to break their tense silence, but not before his hand reaches - no, _grabs_ \- for Anakin’s jaw.

“Look at me, boy,” he commands, and the combination of firm voice and strong, calloused hand is too much for the Jedi to resist, so he meets Obi-Wan’s complete smirk. “Good,” he says, though it sounds less an assessment of the action and more of his face and neck. Anakin shivers before he can stop himself, feels the way the Sith pulls at his chin as it ripples through him. He doesn't _moan_ , per se, but whatever ungodly noise escapes him makes Obi-Wan bite his lip in anticipation just the same. The older looks him over, not skipping a single part of his body. He moves in, slowly, still pulling Anakin’s face to his. They meet in the middle, as Anakin’s eyes flutter closed. Their lips aren’t touching, but one wrong move and they both close in. Anakin feels he may be eaten alive. He wants to lean in further, finally seal a deal that’s been years in the making, but something pounds in his chest. A reminder. _This is bad,_ he thinks, feels both his own guilt combined with years of the Council’s suppression. _You aren’t supposed to feel this way._

He wants to shut out his own head, just get this over with. He can almost taste the Sith Lord’s breath, hot and sweet like some sort of forbidden nectar. It calls to him, pulls him close to the relief of pink lips, to the rough scratch of a perfect auburn beard. He can just lean in, and-

No, he _can’t._

This is wrong, all of it is, and Anakin should have realized as much a long time ago. Breath still caught in his throat, he turns his head to the side, quickly. His eyes don’t leave the carpet. He doesn’t say a word, but it’s all the " _no_ " that Obi-Wan needs. He takes a step backwards, then another, and claps his hands together once as if to say _yes, this is fine. Alright._

Even in rejection, the Sith hasn’t missed a single beat. Anakin wonders exactly how much Obi-Wan was truly prepared for and then, after a bit of consideration, how much he’d been told. After all, Padmé was logically his only confidant. Anakin hates having to wonder exactly how much he can trust his closest friend, whose word he’d have accepted without question mere days before. He shakes these thoughts (though the doubt still remains), and promptly realizes that he has exactly zero conversation topics. He looks to Obi-Wan for a short moment (it’s all he can handle, being briefly reminded of yellow everything) and then draws his attention to his lap. He wonders, perhaps belatedly, if he’s permitted to stand or if Obi-Wan aims to keep looking on him like some prize he’s finally acquired.

He must be staring a bit too pensively at his rope-burned wrist, because the next words out of Obi-Wan’s mouth are, “You _can_ get up, you know.”

Anakin snaps to attention and says the most intelligent thing his brain can provide him with. In this case, it happens to be, “Huh?”

“The chair,” he answers. “Move around if you wish; you aren't my prisoner, nor I your captor.”

“Oh.” Anakin nods, dumbly, and takes this as an excuse to finally observe his environment. As he draws himself to his feet, he notes the complete air of luxury that the room presents. It’s absolutely lavish, somehow everything Obi-Wan should be and yet everything a Sith should not. Anakin loses his chance to think on this further, because the next thing he notices is a bed. He tries, weakly, to stop the blood from rushing to his head. He doesn't _know_ that Obi-Wan meant to insinuate anything by bringing him here, doesn't know if there are any intentions here that he should be concerned about. All he does know is that the Sith Lord had to drag his unconscious ass somewhere. That may just happen to be his quarters. He’s looking around, quite distracted, when he speaks again.

“Nice place you got here- oh!” his statement is interrupted by the crush of physical weight against his own. He finds himself pressed against one of the walls, unable to hold back an unsettled gasp. In the blur of movement which compromised him (for the third time in one day, _great job_ Skywalker), he prides himself on the slight (and clearly insufficient) use of instinct his body kicked into. Without his brain realizing, he’s gone into defense mode; one hand rests on the hilt of his lightsaber, the other tightly grips his captor’s wrist. They stare at each other for a moment, before Anakin loosens the latter hand. Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows expectantly, a sort of hum escaping him.

“I know- rookie mistake,” Anakin supplies with a tone that’s half defeated and half _long running inside joke_. The Sith Lord has been giving him surprisingly helpful combat advice probably since they first met and he was seventeen. Part of Anakin hears the Council every time he finds the training of use- saying things like  _Skywalker, do not trust a Sith Lord, that is quite possibly the worst decision you could make as a Knight"_ in a very distinctly Mace Windu-like voice. And yet, here he is, completely at the mercy of a Sith Lord and listening intently to his every word. He knows he shouldn't have let his environment distract him, even if he's technically safe. He actually feels a little embarrassed to have let his guard down, and the feeling only intensifies when he remembers that he’s about 6 inches away from the face of his very attractive arch nemesis.

“Good,” the Sith breaks him out of his inner monologue, his tone somewhere between satisfaction and pride. He says nothing more. Anakin wonders how many awkward silences he’s going to have to go through before he gets what he came here for.

“Um- you asked me why I was here,” he starts; Obi-Wan has taken a slight step back but he looks up now, not physically moving any closer but allowing his Force signature this task. Anakin feels this, of course- feels the contact of intrigue and immediately associates it with pressure, continuing in far more of a ramble than he typically might. “Well, I guess you _didn't_ ask, and then we got distracted, but it sounded like you were planning to ask, so I figure that I would just-”

“Why, then?” Obi-Wan cuts him off simply. He sounds genuinely curious, and Anakin can’t tell if he interrupted his episode of rambling out of graciousness or pity. Either way, it keeps him on track.

“I want- I need answers. We’ve been doing,” Anakin takes his hand off Obi-Wan’s wrist to gesture between them, “ _this_ for so long, and I don’t even know what I’m fighting against.”

“I would assume not,” the Sith responds, and again there’s no physical change between them but the Force itself moves. His signature wavers slightly, not strong enough to convey any particular emotion (though Anakin could guess). For any being with a practical nature this would be a sign to stop, but following signs of any kind has never been Anakin’s style. He presses onward.

“So- why are you doing this? What could you possibly have to gain?” Some part of Anakin is unbelievably determined about this; it shows in his voice.

In front of him, the Sith Lord laughs in response. The sound of it is dark and low, but not entirely unpleasant. “And I suppose,” he says once he’s stopped, now withdrawn in the Force completely and turned away from Anakin, “that I’m just meant to trust that you won’t strike me down where I stand the moment I’m distracted in my tragically evil monologue, hm?” His emphasis borders on theatrical, but Anakin can tell it’s a genuine question. This makes sense, of course- what motive would he have to open up to him? Him, a Jedi, the actual mortal enemy of the Sith? There’s no reason for any of this to happen: no balance of power, no treaty, no-

Anakin freezes. His eyes drift down, reluctantly, to the durasteel hand which rests on the hilt of his lightsaber. He knows that he really, _really_ shouldn't do this, but-

He unhooks his lightsaber, takes a step forward, and hands it to Kenobi.

His voice is near silent when, face fixed solemnly on the ground before him, he asks, “How’s that for trust?”

The older man turns, rolling the saber around in his hands. “Ah,” his own voice now hushes as well. “That would do it.” Anakin can't bring himself to do anything other than nod. He feels his throat fill with dread, burning dread, because without his lightsaber he is quite literally defenseless. The Sith Lord seems hesitant enough, but he’s now capable of telling Anakin literally anything in order to- well, he doesn't really know. Maybe seduce him to the dark side, or something otherwise diabolical. Essentially, Anakin knows he shouldn't feel safe, knows he should keep his guard up. But he makes brief, assured eye contact with the Sith before him (whose eyes seem to be unbelievably sad), and safe is the only word he actually feels he can use.

“I suppose there's no getting around it then,” Obi-Wan interrupts his train of thought, voice still almost a whisper. He gestures with one sweep of an arm to the bed behind him (Anakin's face momentarily betrays him, the slightest of darkening in his cheeks), “You ought to sit down. This may take a while.” Anakin nods again, not speaking, as he walks past Obi-Wan to sit stiffly on the edge of the bed.

The Sith clears his throat and turns his body the slight degree to face Anakin. “You and I both know the Jedi Order is flawed,” he begins, slowly. Anakin nods, despite himself. Of all the things he could be told by a Sith Lord, this is definitely the most dangerous. And yet, it's somehow the most right. “Where should I start? The concept of entirely removing emotions is a falsehood at best; at worst, it's an impossibility. The Jedi are constantly demanding the impossible, after all,” Anakin glares daggers into the ground, his cheeks almost certainly burning, “taking children from their families and leaving them with unanswered questions, refusing to let their padawans return home until it's too late.” Obi-Wan cracks an eye open, observing Anakin's response, and then waves a hand. “The list goes on. It's ridiculous, really, the way they force you to grieve and then forbid grieving.” Anakin’s mind drifts back to his mother’s death, back to the way Obi-Wan had treated him, then, and he starts to feel nauseous. His fingernails dig into his palms.

“What- what do you know about grieving?” he snaps, looking up at the Sith with what he hopes is an acceptable amount of anger (which is to say, none). He’s mistaken. He tries, for a second, to calm himself- he’s here to be peaceful, and even if he wasn't, Venge is holding his fucking lightsaber. He's too unfocused to wield the Force, too. He's powerless; the only smart thing to do is calm the hell down. If only he would stop trembling.

Obi-Wan looks at him with a mix of intrigue and _how dare you_. “Quite a lot, actually,” he answers, as though it's obvious. “I was taken from my family at a young age. Hardly even remember them, but I would imagine that feeling isn't mutual. And do you know what I, a damned _child_ , figured I’d do to atone for their suffering? I blamed myself.”

Anakin is already starting to calm down, but something about Obi-Wan’s response makes him freeze. “Wait,” he interrupts, “you were a Jedi?”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Yes, Anakin, I was. I thought that was rather… obvious.”

Anakin has never learned how to deal with being belittled by the Sith, so he sort of just exhales aggressively. Obi-Wan looks briefly amused by the display, but (thankfully) he does not comment.

“Anyway,” he continues instead, “I was allowed, by your _precious_ Order, to be wracked with guilt and depression for most of my youth. Don't even get me started on the burden that ensued when the war began.” Anakin's eyes widen and his gaze darts once again to his lap, knowing the feeling of war all too well. “So you see, I was faced with a bit of a crisis. Either I could kill mercilessly and without regret - something I’m certain would be frowned upon - or I could mourn each death as it goes. Not an ideal decision. But there was… a third option.” Anakin looks up once again, feeling hesitant but curious. He deals with the same decision most days, so any alternative sounds like it would be worth a shot. He has to remind himself that this is a Sith, that he's about to consider a piece of advice offered by a Sith, and that he has the potential in this moment to be completely screwed over by, yep, a Sith.

“I turned, to put it simply, to physical attraction,” Obi-Wan continues. Anakin, well, he really hopes it isn't obvious that he's finding this whole thing really relatable. “Poured every ounce of grief into loving my partners. For once, I felt… normal.” He looks pained by the memory. Anakin can hardly believe his own thoughts, but for the first time in possibly ever, he feels genuine sympathy for the Sith Lord.

“Obi-W-” he starts to say, but is cut off after a swift motion, a hand clapping over his mouth with no restraint of force.

“Stop,” Obi-Wan’s voice is commanding, his now-close eyes enforcing the word. “I can't have you using that name here.” Anakin must look as confused as he feels, judging by the way the Sith shrugs his shoulders. The reaction is… almost defensive. “You never know who’s listening. From this moment forward, I’m… Ben. Alright?” Something shifts in Obi-Wan’s expression; on anyone else, Anakin would call it anxiety. He nods, though, because the last thing he wants to do is fuck up a peaceful visit. That wouldn’t be fair. Also, once again, he’s completely unarmed. So yeah, maybe he's feeling a bit more compliant than he usually does. Can anyone blame him?

Once his intentions are made clear as best he can through nonverbal gesturing, Obi-Wan- _Ben_ \- removes his hand from Anakin's face. Anakin raises his own hand up to touch the space almost instinctively. He mouths the name a few times to get a feel for it, and it's nice. Not really as menacing as his other names, but Anakin supposes that's the opposite of a bad thing, especially where stealth is involved. Obi-Wan clasps both hands behind him and steps back, resuming position for more monologue-appropriate dramatic pacing.

“Now that that's taken care of,” he begins again, taking a moment to give Anakin a final side-eye. “I’m sure I don't need to explain any further why the rules and regulations you regard so highly made me feel weak beyond repair. And this was alongside unavoidable inconveniences like teenage hormones… something I’m sure _you_ can relate to.” He stops pacing, back turned. Anakin genuinely can't tell if he's being serious or not. What the fuck.

“What the fuck,” he says. “I’m twenty-three.”

In one swift motion, Obi-Wan turns to face him. He looks… amused? So it was probably a joke, at least. “Of course you are.” When he speaks, the humor reflects in his voice. It's pretty endearing, actually. Wait, no. Anakin shakes the thought, ducking his head as a blush strikes his cheeks.

“Whatever,” he softly mutters. The moment passes.

Obi-Wan paces the room once again. “As I was saying, the Jedi Order berated me, however unintentionally, until I felt I had nothing. Although I suppose I _did_ have nothing- aren't there rules about possessions?” Anakin opens his mouth to answer, then freezes. It's obviously a rhetorical question, especially if the Sith has been letting these memories fester for however many years. “But the point does not lie in technicalities, I suppose. Rather, what matters is that I felt nothing the Jedi could offer me would console me. So in order to feel comfortable with my work as one of them, I had to disobey what is seemingly their - _your_ \- golden rule. I formed attachments.

“I had one partner within the Order, someone to confide in, share comforts with… who died far, far too young,” he pauses for a moment, wincing at what Anakin can only guess is a memory. “Your Order offered me nothing. I was found out for what I’d done and, truly, I feel it led to my partner’s death, in the end. So I vowed not to let it happen again, and I took my forlorn, dissatisfied affections outside of the Jedi's line of sight.” Again, he takes a moment to pause, and Anakin notes that the skin not covered by his beard is slightly pink. It’s strangely peaceful, seeing a Sith Lord passionate about something so, well, harmless. Obviously it’s led Obi-Wan down what Anakin has always been told is the wrong path, but for a Sith it really isn't terrible at all. Huh.

“There was another, too,” Obi-Wan pulls Anakin from this thoughts, though seemingly unaware that they’d taken place. “Beautiful, strong-willed… we did everything together. I’d have done anything for her, and I said as much. But she was concerned for my training. She knew I’d leave for her; I think that was the problem. I was twenty-four when I went through with it, and though it wasn’t for her, she was the first person I told. Finally, I told her, we could be together! I felt freedom in a way I couldn’t comprehend,” he sighs, almost wistfully. Then his eyes glaze over, unreadable. “But, ah, she wouldn’t have me. She couldn't stand to see what I’d become.”

Before Anakin can stop himself, he mumbles, “She?”

“Yes,” comes the response. “I’m bisexual. Well, biromantic and demisexual if we're being specific.”

Anakin feels his entire face heat up. “That isn't what I was-!” he protests, sputtering on the words with a complete lack of subtlety.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan, as always, remains entirely calm. “Duchess Satine Kryze. I trust you’ve heard of her, particularly within this… political ordeal.”

“Yes, I- we’ve met,” Anakin nods, feeling something of a calm for the first time since he set foot on this planet. Obi-Wan nods, too. It seems he has nothing else to say, so Anakin takes this as his place to cut in.

“Well, it sounds to me like you had no choice,” he hesitates only slightly as Obi-Wan’s eyes fall on him, intrigued if nothing else. “And that's- I’m sorry.”

“What?” he asks. “None of this is your fault- I mean, you’ve vexed me since the day we met, but that’s… that was long after. I did what I had to.” Obi-Wan sighs, something akin to regret- though far less discernible- masking his features. Anakin studies the expression, takes a deep breath, and then-

“So come back.”

Obi-Wan looks up, bemused, “Pardon?”

“To the light side,” Anakin is quick to elaborate, all of his courage spilling into the words. He's standing now, trying to display any semblance of confidence. “To _Good_. I mean, if you were willing to give up your future to make one person happy, you couldn't possibly be all bad, right?”

“Anakin, don’t try it,” he mutters the command, something uncomfortable in it. Anakin keeps trying.

“I mean, I guess you wouldn't have to be a Jedi again, that ship’s probably sailed, but you could definitely help in other ways. You’d make an efficient Republic general, for sure. And I’m sure negotiations would be a lot easier if you weren't always working… in the shadows, so to speak. Know what I mean?”

“No, I _really_ can't-”

“Sure you can!” Anakin's enthusiasm doesn't waver. “Everyone deserves a second chance, and this could be yours. I know you aren't anything like the other Sith, Ben, listen to me-”

“No!” Obi-Wan shouts. Anakin’s smile fades. “You're going to listen to _me_ now, understand?” He raises one hand, fingers curling. Anakin’s eyes widen.

“Ben, what are you-?” before he can even get the question out, Anakin feels something tighten around his throat. He grasps at it, desperately trying to loosen the grip, but he knows it’ll do nothing. He gasps for air anyway, staring at the Sith in disbelief as he feels his feet leave the floor. He wants to look away, maybe use his remaining strength to fight back, but he's terribly fixated on the pulsing brightness of Venge’s golden eyes.

“I know what you're doing,” he spits. “You think you can come all this way, pretending that you _care_ just so you can sell me back to the Order?” Anakin shakes his head frantically. He wants to protest. He can't move. “You are talking about things you do not understand. I don't need your petty “compliments,” either- it is neither your place to compare me to others, nor something which flatters me.” Anakin struggles, still, but he's beginning to lose focus on anything beyond not dying. The Force which is not his downfall- that which, currently, comes off of the Sith Lord- is a fire. Anakin feels his very essence burning, the danger inescapable. He tries to fixate on that rather than the pain he feels, because it’s much more alluring than it would be to just think about dead. A part of him is in fear of the power which is possessed, but more than that Anakin is fascinated by it.

The passion of anger does not just show in the Force, but in the Sith’s language, hard and cacophonous and unforgiving. “Any spark of your precious good within me is a flaw to be extinguished, not some gateway for you to call home. The Sith is my life! You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do, boy, and you will learn that if I have to-” He freezes, something shifting in his now-wide eyes.

He stretches out his hand and the Force releases Anakin. He falls on his knees to the floor, gasping and immediately surrendering to a fit of pathetic coughs. Everything around him seems blurry; the only thing he can focus on is the Sith's boots on the floor. They take a fraction of a step forward, then stop.

“Forgive me,” says the voice above the boots, laced with anguish. The boots turn and begin to walk from the room.

Anakin can barely move, but he forces himself to look up at him. His voice is low when he speaks, barely audible. “It felt good, didn't it?”

Obi-Wan stops, mere steps away from the doorway. “What?” he asks, but does not turn around.

“The control,” he answers, punctuated still by coughs. He reaches one hand up to rub his neck. “A life in your hands. The _power_ , the satisfaction…” Obi-Wan _does_ turn around now, lips drawn into a thin line as his eyes say… something else. He takes slow steps forward, toward Anakin's barely-conscious body. Anakin tenses immediately, but wills himself to calmness as the Sith crouches to study him. “I-” he tries again, but still coughs helplessly, “I understand.”

Obi-Wan doesn't respond, not really. He shakes his head ever slightly, and there are words under his breath which Anakin doesn't catch. It's not for lack of trying; he isn't sure that whatever it was was even in Basic. He doesn't have much time to think about it, though, because after a minute Obi-Wan straightens himself and stands. He's still looking intently at Anakin as he holds out a hand to pull him to his feet.

That hand almost killed him a minute ago.

Anakin stares at it, and time seems to stop. He can't believe this. He can't believe any of this, really; he shouldn’t even be here, a fact that should be impossible to forget now. He should be thinking of how he plans to get off of this backwater planet, how in Sith hell he’s supposed to get his lightsaber back (does he just… ask? That would be fair, since he gave it up just as willingly, but this is a Sith here), and he definitely shouldn't be thinking about whether or not he’ll have to mend ties with his kriffing arch nemesis.

He must be taking quite a while in real time, because as his trembling hand lingers out in front of him, he sees Obi-Wan start to withdraw.

“You’re right, I shouldn't have-” his voice is the smallest Anakin's ever heard it. It's kind of jarring, a terrible change in dynamic. This needs to stop. Obi-Wan pulls his hand away, but at the last possible second Anakin grasps it with both of his own, using the weight to tug himself to his feet before he can hear a protest. Only, he isn't on his feet very long at all before he hears a loud _boom_ from outside somewhere and the ground below his feet starts to rumble. He tumbles forward, falling right onto Obi-Wan, who dutifully catches him and steadies him in his arms. They lock eyes for a moment, both too concerned to be flustered at the contact because what the hell was that. It happens again, floor shuddering underneath them. Anakin stumbles and is caught once again. It dawns on him after a moment- they’ve both been at war long enough to recognize an explosion.

“Shit,” they both say through gritted teeth.

Anakin pulls away from Obi-Wan, running to the room’s only window. He squints as he looks out. He can't see anything. At least, not at first. He directs his gaze more towards the sky, then sucks in a breath.

“What is it?” Obi-Wan asks, concern knitted in his face as he walks over. He leans forward to look out the window as well, placing a hand on Anakin's back to balance himself. The touch feels… natural, almost to the point that he doesn't identify it as anything out of the ordinary. Well, it starts to feel abnormal after about half a second (a half-second in which Anakin is _sure_ he's blushing), but that doesn't matter right now. Besides, there are more important things to be worried about, made apparent by the way Obi-Wan claps his hand over his mouth.

There's a Republic assault ship attempting to land on the planet. “Ben, holy _shit_ -” he curses, one hand reaching back for him almost subconsciously. He isn't sure why the contact would relax him, but when Obi-Wan takes his hand it's in such pleasant contrast to the stress that seeps through the Force. “How in the-”

“You need to get out of here,” he snaps, taking a step backwards and pulling Anakin with him. “Can't imagine they'd respond well to one of their generals engaging the enemy, and- How did you get here?”

“I- uh-” Anakin fumbles. Despite himself, a nervous smile creeps at his lips. “You know that _Starlight_ -class light freighter that came through?”

Obi-Wan gapes at him, expression tied between shock and actual disappointment. Anakin can't say that he doesn't receive the expression often (try damn near _constantly_ ), but it's surprisingly familiar on the Sith. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” he groans, body language conveying his sarcasm. “How are you supposed to leave if you-”

“Me?” Anakin asks and, okay, maybe he sounds a little more panicked than he means to. But it's fine. Everything's fine. “What about _you_? I mean, what the hell, you can't actually be considering fighting them all off!”

Obi-Wan doesn't answer.

“By the Force. You are,” Anakin feels like he's going to scream. He tugs his hand away from the man, choosing instead to run it through his hair as he lets out a deep, frustrated sigh. “Well, that is absolutely not happening. Don't you have a ship?”

All of a sudden, Obi-Wan looks sort of… smaller. A more objective term for the expression would be stressed, but that really isn't how this feels at all. It's as though he's been stripped of everything, confidence and visual authority included. The attitude doesn't change when he answers by stammering out, “Well, yes, but-”

Anakin is having none of this. “But what?”

“Well I just don't think that I can-”

“Yeah?”

“I simply don't feel qualified to-”

“For kriff’s sakes, just get on with it!” He throws his hands in the air.

“I- I can't fly,” Obi-Wan murmurs, eyes downcast. Anakin’s sure that his eyes are bulging so far that they’ll fall off his face. “What? Like, at all?”

“Of course not _at all_ ,” he hisses defensively, and something about it makes Anakin feel like he’s also biting back a petty insult. “Just not in any way that might effectively avoid being caught. But worry not: there is another way.”

With no shortage of ceremony and grandeur (a trait about the Sith which Anakin, admittedly, has grown somewhat fond of), Obi-Wan rolls up the sleeve of his tunic to reveal a particularly toned forearm. More importantly (from a certain point of view), he reveals the communicator on his wrist. He doesn't specify who he’s calling once he starts somewhat frantically making selections, but Anakin feels he can safely assume it's a network of Separatists, or Sith Lords, or something.

“This is Venge,” he says into the device; the way he identifies himself indicates to Anakin that he must be right. And boy, does he ever have a bad feeling about this. “Requesting escort from the planet Mustafar, in the Atravis sector. Please respond.” He shuts the feed off, stares at his comm, and begins to tap his finger nervously against his wrist. Anakin waits patiently (for a response, he's assuming?) for what probably is about five minutes, but he doesn’t stop thinking.

Thinking, as it often does, leads Anakin to an idea. “Y’know, actually, I think that I could-”

“Venge here,” Obi-Wan cuts him off. “Still in need of an escort from Mustafar, Atravis sector.” He sounds annoyed, mostly, but there's a bit of panic there, too. “It's really rather dire. Kenobi out.” He disconnects, sighs, and turns to Anakin. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Well,” Anakin starts again, uncertain why he's so off-guard this second time. “ _You_ can't fly your ship-”

“Rubbing it in isn't necessary-” Obi-Wan says under his breath.

“But I can.” He watches the Sith's expression carefully and feels frankly a little disappointed when the immediate response is disapproval.

“What?” Obi-Wan waves his hand. “No. Definitely not.”

“Come on!” Anakin groans and feels, for the first time in a long time, like he’s requesting something of Qui-Gon. (He didn’t often say no to things, particularly, but he had a very infuriating way of _not_ saying yes.) “If this is a question of my skill, I can fly anything- what even is it? It can’t be that advanced.”

“It’s an _Actis_ -class interceptor, but that’s hardly the point,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t see why you think that taking this kind of risk will do either of us any good.”

Anakin, well, drops his fucking jaw. “Risk? How is this any different than- If any of the crew see me in the cockpit, they won’t shoot. It’s that simple.”

“That may be so,” Obi-Wan admits, “but I don’t imagine that any of them would react well to their general and Chosen One being found on a planet such as this, Separatist-affiliated and all. Surely you’ll be questioned, be it by your Council or the Senate, and I do hope you don’t need me to explain why that may put us both at stake.”

On one hand, Anakin knows that Obi-Wan has a point; on the other, if they wait any longer they could _die_ and this isn’t an appropriate time to be worried about stakes. The best thing to do in this situation is politely state his case, Anakin knows, but when he tries the only thing that comes out is, “That’s bantha shit. How the hell is waiting around for help any better?”

Something flares up in Obi-Wan’s eyes, but instead of responding he just fiddles with his comm again. “ _Venge_ ,” his teeth are gritted now, and it definitely looks like he might throw the communicator against the wall of this doesn’t work out. “requesting escort from Mustafar.” No elaboration. In turn, no response. Anakin watches him continue to mess with it, and can't help but feel a bit aggressive as it continues to do absolutely nothing of value. Obi-Wan mutters, “Blasted thing,” as it under his breath, possibly more intense by the heat on Anakin’s stare.

“This is a waste of time,” Anakin says, because it is. Obi-Wan looks up, and Anakin doesn't know what he was expecting but it certainly isn't this: a face which reads cold, calculated anger, in contrast to his own hotheaded fury. Surely it's an expression Anakin’s seen before, but never has he looked on it and just _wanted_. Wanted to have the resolve to feel it himself, instead of defaulting on this white hot. Wanted to witness the results of it, whether watching on someone else like a spectator sport or feeling it inflicted on himself. Either way, his heart hammers in his chest at thought. But his boldness only wavers for a second (though his mind lingers perhaps a moment too long on the thought of his body spread and exposed, fresh cuts mapping out the stars as a Sith Lord looms overtop him) before he’s back in the moment. His face flushes in realization, but he meets Obi-Wan’s stare, a challenge, and continues, “Either we get the hell out of here _now_ , or we die.”

“If we're spotted escaping at your hand, we will die. It isn't even a question.” Anakin opens his mouth to protest but is not acknowledged. Well, that isn’t right. He’s acknowledged, he is just also immediately rejected. “No, no. You can’t possibly argue this. Either we’re shot down because, regardless of who is piloting, it’s _my_ ship that is seen trying to leave, or you’re reported for associating with a sworn enemy. If the former, our fate is obvious. If the latter, you’ll be questioned by your Council, and you’re almost fated to give up whatever information on me you may have.” Anakin must look as offended as he feels about the implications here, because Obi-Wan rolls his eyes and huffs a bitter laugh. “Come now, Anakin. You can’t truly expect me to believe that the Council _still_ believes in your lies without question? That they won’t push this, your most crucial shortcoming, to its breaking point?” He laughs again, and Anakin’s face grows bright red. He’s boiling.

“You- you’re wrong!” he shouts, without even meaning to. “Even if you weren’t, I would bet my whole _life_ that I can get us off this planet without being spotted by enough troops to raise suspicious-”

“That doesn’t even seem possible-” Obi-Wan shoots back, voice raised higher than it had been mere moments ago. They’re talking over each other now, barely listening and still devoted to fighting each other.

“Force, you’re just so concerned with doing the most logical thing that you can’t even save your own damn life-”

“And I suppose you’d rather everyone be just like you? Impulsive, stubborn-”

“I can do it, I know I can, if you would just _trust me_ -” he freezes. They seem to realize what Anakin is asking at the same time, and Obi-Wan opens his mouth to say something. Instead, he reaches for his comm again, hands raised to the air in a stupor.

“Requesting escort from-”

Anakin’s body is in motion before his mind knows what he’s doing. With the slightest flick of his hand and a ripple in the Force, Obi-Wan’s communicator flies off his wrist and across the room. He reaches out to grab it, but Anakin seizes the opportunity and grabs him by the wrist. Their eyes lock.

“Ben,” he pleads, and it still feels so strange to call him such a casual name. It’s strange to initiate contact with him, strange to ask for his unconditional trust. Strange to try and salvage the lives of the both of them, rather than just himself. Shouldn’t the world be better with one less Sith? Is that not what he’s been taught? “Let me do this. Please.”

Obi-Wan’s voice is hushed, his eyes wide. “I- can’t.”

Anakin doesn’t want to argue more, it’s exhausting, but he opens his mouth to speak. Anything he says is drowned out by the sound of a craft landing very close outside the quarters, though. There’s nothing for them to do except exchange a long, hesitant look.

Anakin says, “Well now you’ve done it,” but Obi-Wan isn’t listening anymore. He wriggles out of the Jedi’s grasp with ease and takes a step toward the durasteel wall nearest the ship. Anakin wants to shout, ask him what the hell he’s doing, but Obi-Wan turns back both to answer and to silence him.

“I felt something,” he explains, taking another step toward the wall. “You may need this.” He tosses something to Anakin, who is surprised to find that he has his lightsaber back. He rolls it around in his hand as though he’s reunited with it after thirty years instead of the thirty minutes of real time which it has most likely been. He directs his attention back to the wall, back to Obi-Wan, and jumps back slightly at the sound of something tearing through it. While Anakin steps back, lightsaber in hand, Obi-Wan takes another step forward as they watch two red blades cut through the surface of the wall. A circle is cut out, almost perfectly; it falls through to reveal a tall figure clad in black approaching them, and _holy shit_ , it’s-

“Padmé!” Anakin nearly shrieks, unable to contain his excitement. Obi-Wan’s entire body goes still, meanwhile, and he has just enough time to shoot back a glare at Anakin before he regards the Chancellor for himself.

“My lady,” he says slowly, lowering himself to one knee at her feet. She smiles (a different smile than Anakin’s ever seen, alarming and new) and extends a hand to him, which he promptly takes in his own and then raises to his lips. The touch lingers.

Anakin watches, face heating, and for the first time he seems to truly comprehend the sort of authority that Padmé has, the sort of power. It’s illuminated in the Force, circling Anakin and trying almost desperately to grab his attention. Not that it needs to. Overwhelmed, he falls to his hands and knees.

“I mean- Your Highness!” he stammers, face almost meeting the obsidian ground. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare to, until he hears the slight echo of high heels approach him. “I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean,” he whispers, just as she reaches down to cup his face, gently pulling him upward. He sits on his feet and looks up to see that she’s… laughing? That can’t be right. She’s powerful to no limit, she has no reason to put up with him now. But she does, and her smile is just as bright as it’s always been when she regards him.

“It’s fine, Ani,” she says, voice ever sweet, and Anakin doesn’t have the self control to not lean into her. Over Padmé’s shoulder, Obi-Wan gawks. “ _Ani?_ ” he mouths, clearly very amused. Anakin flushes indignantly. Padmé moves to stand, one hand keeping its hold on the side of Anakin’s cheekbone. It pulls him upwards, though gently. He doesn’t want to move away from the touch, not now, but Padmé pulls away with something determined in her expression.

“We need to move,” she explains, motioning for them both to follow her back through the passage she’s cut. Anakin hesitates only a moment, his eyes descending to the lightsaber in his hand. He isn’t sure how long he’s been looking at it, but he feels a rough hand clap on his shoulder. He looks up to see Obi-Wan watching him expectantly.

“You’d better hurry along, _Ani_ ,” he teases, grinning and generally having more fun than one should during an escape. Anakin feels an unforgiving chill run up his spine, the Sith’s use of the nickname shocking but not undesirable. He shoots a glare at Obi-Wan, who feigns innocence, and then huffs before hooking his saber to his belt and following the both of them.

The first thing Anakin notices once climbing up the ramp of the ship is how nice it is. Everything is pristine to a fault, so perfectly indicative of everything _Padmé_ that it makes perfect sense for her to have it at her disposal. He does have one question, though.

“How did you manage to get here without raising suspicion?” he asks. If the look on Obi-Wan’s face is any indication, he was going to ask the same question. Padme shrugs, her face twisting into a grin that’s about two parts kindness and one part mischief, roughly. “Amazing what you can get away with when you’re Supreme Chancellor.” Anakin feels something in the pit of his stomach vaguely resembling his conscience, like this is an abuse of power he should say something about, but he shuts it up. Best not to make a fool of himself, especially now. He takes a step back, doesn’t even know if it means anything.

Because he can't help himself, Anakin lets another question pour out of his throat. “And- where are we going?”

This time, Padmé laughs lightly. “Our course, my dear, is whatever you want it to be.” She winks, and he feels his face flush. Well, he’s not going to press that.

There’s a fair amount of space between him and Padmé now, and Obi-Wan fills it. He looks comfortable in her presence, if his grin is any indication. Padmé's arm wraps around his shoulders; she rests there lazily, perfectly deliberate in the gesture’s compensation for the height she has on him. Anakin looks up fully, watches them smiling, and feels his entire body heat up.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan speaks first, gracious to say the least when he doesn’t mention the burn of Anakin’s cheeks. “Where are my manners? Anakin, I’d like you to meet my master.” He does not move in Padmé's touch, but his eyes direct to her in a way that is definitely smug. Padmé releases the remains of a concealed laugh, whispers something indeterminable to Obi-Wan. He breaks into his own grin, and Padmé waves innocently to Anakin.

Okay. There’s obviously something going on between them, a shared secret, and Anakin wants in. He knows that this is something he needs to be strategic about, knows he needs to ask the right questions, but instead of doing anything that might resemble reason, his mouth blurts out, “Are you two… together?”

In near-perfect sync, the two Sith turn to look at each other. They look stunned, to say the least, but the look on Obi-Wan’s face goes deeper. He’s hesitant, respectful… asking for permission. Waiting. It’s... strange, seeing a man who’s tormented Anakin without second thought for so long be held back by anything at all.

As though granting permission, Padmé is the first to react. She laughs, loud and confident and _beautiful_ , body shaking in ripples. Somewhere along the way her arms jerk, gently pushing her apprentice away from her. He doesn’t seem to mind, having followed suit and started, also, to delve into laughter. They’re both shaking their heads, the thought too unbelievable to them, Anakin supposes. A few times their eyes catch each other’s, and the cycle continues. That answers that, then.

Except that it _doesn’t_ , because any creature with eyes could see that Obi-Wan’s posture shifts after a moment. He’s visibly more tense, his laugh slowing down as he steals glances in Padmé's direction. It may be the ship’s lighting, but Anakin swears he can see newfound pink in his cheeks, and, by the Force, this is absolutely the last thing he expected. That isn’t to say that Padmé is unworthy of affections, not at all, it just gives Anakin a strange sensation to think that he can add _crush on Padmé Amidala_  to the very short list of things he has in common with Obi-Wan Kenobi. The feeling in his gut grows stronger still when he realizes that no part of him feels competitive at the realization. He doesn’t care that Obi-Wan may someday get to take Padmé in, feel her perfect olive skin, taste the stars on her lips. _Hell_ , he thinks, toes curling in his boots, fists clenched, _he’d like to watch_.

The thought escapes him as soon as it had come, and Anakin feels something of decreasing tensions in the Force. Once the feeling registers, he shoots Obi-Wan a knowing smile, wonders if he catches the note of sympathy in his eyes. Obi-Wan is caught off guard for a brief second, but then scoffs and rolls his eyes. Anakin isn't certain on the source of his annoyance.

Padmé, meanwhile, slows her laughter to a stop; a small smile resting on her lips. “Padawan,” Obi-Wan snaps to attention, and Anakin detects the slightest invisible tremor in his shoulders. It vanishes in an instant as he nods to acknowledge her. “Would you mind watching the controls? I’d like to have a moment alone with our guest.” Anakin tenses at the thought, wondering what she might possibly have in store for him.

Obi-Wan nods, bowing politely. “Of course,” he obliges, turning away to leave the room. Anakin doesn’t know what the hell it’s supposed to mean when he feels safer in a room with two Sith instead of one.

Padmé smiles at him, almost smirks, and sidesteps until they're next to each other. She places a guiding hand on his back, her eyes not leaving him. Anakin doesn't move beyond the new tension in his muscles. He hopes Padmé won't notice, but then she takes a step forward, nudging him along with her, and he doesn't move. Can't.

The Sith frowns, her hand pulling back a fraction. “What are you doing?” she asks, though Anakin’s sure she knows.

He shrugs and wills the tremor in his shoulders away. “Nothing. Sorry.” Padmé nods and continues to walk. Anakin follows this time, but it doesn't stop the way his chest feels stiff and tight. Her touch against his skin, even with a layer of clothing between it, feels like a scar. It’s a deep, frightening sort of pain. He wills himself to be distracted, looking instead at the long corridor the two of them walk down. Everything is pristine beyond fault. The vastness of the place seems illogical, especially if the ship is unmanned. He thinks about asking Padmé how she keeps it in such a condition, but his mind is on other things as he feels her hand’s pressure on his back once again.

This time, she’s directing him to turn. They take a sharp left into one of the doorways. Despite his best efforts, Anakin winces at the contact yet again. He’s sure that, this time, the Force pulses with his tension. Attempting to cover that up, he opens his eyes as quickly as he can.

They’ve entered a room of about medium size. The floor of this place is no different than the others: a cool, black tile, something smooth beneath his boots. However, as his eyes travel he sees that this room has a rug in its center. It’s round and oblong, the color a deep red and the material looking soft and forgiving. Seated atop this rug is a sofa for two, which matches more closely with the darkness of the walls than with the rug. Anakin thinks it could swallow him if it tried.

The rest of the room is relatively empty, save for a matching plush chair and, behind it, a large window. Anakin looks beyond it and sees the swirling stars in a void of black. It’s almost nice to look at it this way, not like while he’s flying or in any danger at all. Now, he’s just relaxed, thinking of the stars as if he owes them nothing.

He steps into the room, stopping just as the tips of his boots touch the rug. Now, at a later date he’ll recall Padmé telling him, “Make yourself comfortable,” but in the moment he fails to hear anything. She quirks her eyebrow when he seemingly ignores her, and steps a few paces to stand in front of him again. This time, she puts her hand on his arm.

“Sit,” she says. It isn’t a command- doesn’t even sound like one- but with nothing else to go off of, Anakin panics. Without hesitation he falls to the floor, settling on the carpet. He dares himself to look up at Padmé, for approval, but she only looks concerned. She crouches to his level, arms resting on her knees. She sighs a little, then assesses the situation. Anakin braces himself for what’s to come.

“You’re scared of me,” she observes. It isn't a question. Something in her expression is confused, but the rest of it just seems sad. On the rug, Anakin shifts uncomfortably. At his own risk, he nods, eyes rolling.

“Well, yeah,” he says, like it's obvious. _Of course_ it’s obvious. “You’re a _Sith Lord_ , Pad- Your Highness. Killer? Destroyer of worlds? Any of that ring a bell?”

Padmé bites her lip. “Anakin, don't do that.”

“Shouldn’t you want me dead?” he continues undeterred. “Or worse?”

“I don't want you dead,” it’s nearly a whisper. “I… thought you didn't care about all that. We’re _friends_ , Anakin, isn't that what comes first?”

Anakin says nothing. He stops for a moment, tries to think this through. On the one hand, Padmé’s right; she's the closest thing he has to a family, and she’s been a Sith this whole time. If they've cared for each other this long, they can certainly continue. But that’s ridiculous, the other hand reasons. She’s a Sith Lord. His affection for her already borders on attachment, something forbidden and secret and _wrong_ , and now? Is he supposed to just completely defy the code for her? He looks into her eyes again, looking for an answer. This time they’re hopeful, pupils large in her golden eyes. She wants this, he realizes, wants _him_. Sith or Jedi doesn't matter, not to her.

“Can’t we treat things as they were?” she asks him after the silence. She holds out a hand to him, a lifeline. Anakin stares at her hand, because he can’t help himself to do otherwise. He doesn’t feel fearful anymore, simply studying the curves of her fingers with admiration. She carries a sort of grace between them, the assertion gentle despite everything. She is a Sith, and yet she is peaceful. And that’s okay.

“Yes,” he says, their fingers interlocking. “You’re right.” She pulls him to his feet.

“Excellent!” She drops his hand as soon as she’d held it. Anakin finds himself missing the contact. “Now that that’s done with, tell me,” a pause. “How are things with you and Obi-Wan?”

Anakin chokes rather gracelessly on his own spit, and all he can muster is a stunned, “what.” He feels his cheeks burn crimson red. Padmé covers her mouth with her hand, but it isn’t enough to conceal the laugh that escapes her.

“Don’t be so _shy_ about it,” she accuses, though her warmth is evident. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He fumbles. “Well, that’s not- I didn’t-”

Padmé doesn’t need to say anything more; one look, and the truth is out of him.

“I don’t know,” he confesses, shoulders slumping.

Padmé clicks her tongue, interest clearly piqued. “Really?” she asks, “What’s changed?”

“Well, I…” Anakin starts, his hands gesturing in an attempt to represent something. He isn’t even sure what.

“You _like_ him,” Padmé supplies, the words coming out with a quiet sort of pride.

Anakin wants to agree, he really does, but he doesn’t feel like he can. “I mean,” he starts instead, “I guess? But I don’t even know what that’s supposed to feel like… I don’t know what I’m doing.” His eyes are drawn to the carpet now, and he thinks about sitting back down, about making himself look as small as he feels. As if that wasn’t enough emotional baggage, he continues, “And besides, how am I supposed to know if he feels the same way?”

Padmé gapes at him, as if she’s never heard a question this ridiculous. “Feels the same way?” she repeats. “Anakin, be sensible. Of course he does.”

“Okay,” Anakin folds his arms across his chest, skeptical. “And you know this how?”

Padmé ‘s expression shifts for a mere instant, and it looks like she’s going to laugh at him. She doesn’t though, a fact for which Anakin is eternally grateful. Grateful, but confused. He opens his mouth to ask again, but he doesn’t have to. She has a clear list in her brain- Anakin’s known her long enough to tell when she’s thinking hard about something- and it flows out of her with minimal restraint.

“Well, he hasn’t killed you.” Anakin nearly chokes.

“Oh, I’m flattered,” he deadpans, fairly certain the horrified feeling in his gut is shining through. Is this really the Sith standard for love? Do they think that that's all it takes?

“I’m not joking!” Padmé bats at his arm lightly. She sees the way she's made him upset, though, the straightforwardness an ill-calculated move. She softens. “Listen. I know this whole thing is scary and new to you, but I think you know I’m right. You’ve been at each other's throats for Force knows how long, but he's never finished the job. And not by lack of opportunity to.” She winks, and Anakin thinks of every time he’s been at the Sith Lord’s mercy. He remembers, more recently, the tingling sensation of _handing him his own lightsabe_ r. He remembers the invisible Force closing in on his throat, but never snapping. (He recalls the latter with a chill in his spine, a rumble and ache far lower that he doesn't dare name.) He sighs, giving in.

“I guess you’re right,” he admits with a shrug, “but that doesn't prove-”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Padmé interrupts. “It’s subtle, but I… I’m closer to him than anyone. I can name every twitch in his lip line, every movement in his brow. He looks at you, and he's _home_ , Ani. Of course he cares for you.”

Anakin is stunned into silence. His entire face is burning with a flush that has flown past subtlety and landed in the next galaxy. He feels his heart hammer in his chest, something loud and terrible about it. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then he opens it again.

“Even if this- if he,” he fumbles over the words, sighing, “you know. What exactly am I supposed to do about it? It isn’t as if I can just… talk to him.” Padmé cocks her head, the lighting pulling a certain sympathy from her features. “Can’t you?”

Anakin is dumbfounded. Anything that’s ever happened between him and Obi-Wan was never thought out, never discussed. The idea that a simple conversation could melt their tension is laughable at best. _Though_ , he thinks without wanting to, _she does know him best…_ “Alright,” he mutters, “I’ll bite. How- and in what galaxy- am I supposed to just _tell him_ that after years of fighting and clawing that I’d much rather bone him than bring him to justice?”

Padmé laughs, not a second more than the situation calls for. Anakin feels a sort of satisfaction at bringing the sound out of her. Her hand grazes his shoulder, both in kind acknowledgement and to steady herself. The smallest smile tugs at his lips. “Well, I wouldn’t say it in so many words,” Padmé eventually says, the traces of joy still evident. “This is something you should plan out. Rehearse.” _Where is she going with this?_ “... Why don’t you try it out on me?”

Anakin stares, knows he’s staring, can’t stop staring. He shakes his head, “You’re joking.”

“Come on!” she protests, grinning through this like it’s the easiest thing. “You be you, I’ll be him. Just pretend you’re in love with me.”

There’s a glint in her eye, a quirk in her grin. She knows. She _has_ to know. Anakin’s eyes hit the carpet, coming to the only conclusion he can imagine: she’s making fun of him. It hurts to think it, hurts to imagine the mockery behind her kind, sun-kissed eyes, but he has to be safe. He can’t just say _no_ , anyway; that would ruin any chances of covering this up. The air feels thick around him but he swallows it down.

“Alright,” he croaks, and immediately wants to shut himself up for all time. He has to be normal about this. He swallows the lump in his throat. He opens his mouth, ready to sell his romantic confessions on a silver platter, but what comes out is… absolutely nothing.

“Okay,” he laughs, breathless and nervous, “I can’t. You start.” His shoulders are stiff, but graciously she laughs too.

“Of course,” she nods and takes a deep, dramatic breath. Her eyes close once, then open. She’s grinning something awful, and Anakin doesn't have the faintest idea why until the next words are out of her mouth. “Yes, Anakin? Is there something you wanted to tell me?” She’s faking the worst Coruscanti lilt he’s ever heard.

And it sounds exactly like Obi-Wan.

Anakin has to physically cover his mouth to keep from laughing. He holds his breath for a moment, forcing his nerves to calm themselves before he can express them. Padmé’s looking at him expectantly, though it seems a part of her is trying to suppress laughter as well. She’s so much better at it.

He exhales once, swallows a knot in his throat, and nods to himself. “Okay, Obi-W-” he backtracks, “Ben.” (Padmé quirks her brow at the change, but says nothing. He continues.) “I guess what I need you to know is that I… I don't like sand.”

Now, it's Padmé’s turn to laugh, breaking character. “Ani, you can't be serious.”

Anakin thought he could get through this, he really did, but he can feel his face burning and he wants to get this over with. “Just let me finish, _Ben_ ,” he says through gritted teeth, looking up from the floor just long enough to glare somewhat pointedly at Padmé. There’s no real heat to it, though he is a bit hurt that he can’t be taken seriously. She gets the message regardless, smiling apologetically.

“Alright,” the accent makes its return, and is somehow more exaggerated than the first time. Anakin nods in satisfaction, but can’t bring his smile to be anything but nervous. “Please, continue.”

“So- ah-” with his previous footing lost, Anakin fumbles a moment. “Sand. It’s coarse, it’s irritating, and it gets _everywhere_.” He pauses to scowl in distaste, imagining the tiny grains. “It’s out of place, unwelcome… it’s me.”

“Wh-”

“I’ve never had a home,” he continues, not letting himself be interrupted. “I don’t feel… right, I guess. Like this isn’t _meant_ to be mine, none of it is. Prophecy or no prophecy.” Up to now, his gaze has been just past Padmé, not on her. But then he looks at her, takes in her eyes and her soft skin. “But _you_ , you’re different. You’re soft, smooth, like a current. I’m drawn to you- have been for _so long_ , and I just…” without meaning to, he takes a step toward her, shortens their distance. They’re so close now, Anakin swears he hears Padmé’s heartbeat. “I feel like that’s meant to be.”

Padmé exhales shakily, something newly softened in her features. She moves a bit closer too, and he can’t find himself more interested in anything but her lips. He wants them on him more than anything. She opens her mouth to speak. He hangs on the words.

“Anakin…” it’s a whisper, soft and vulnerable. Neither says more, just moves in to finally close their distance, until-

Obi-Wan bursts into the room, something of a panic on his face. He starts, seeing the two of them (who shift apart as soon as he enters), but he shakes the surprise as soon as it had come.

“Master,” he catches his breath, wipes a disheveled sweat from his brow. “We aren’t alone.”

This gets Padmé’s attention. She stands up a little straighter, facial features somewhere between concern and annoyance. “Pirates?” she asks, something about her tone seeming to imply that she’s omitted " _again_?" from the question.

Obi-Wan nods, running a hand through his hair. “Most likely. I heard noise in the hangar and came straight here.”

Padmé unhooks her lightsabers from her belt and moves to leave. “I’ll take care of it.” As she passes Obi-Wan, she claps a hand on his shoulder and glances back at Anakin. “Watch him.”

Anakin and Obi-Wan must have the same idea, because they both offer the same protest of, “But I can-!” They both stop, turn to look at one another. It’s the first they’ve interacted since Obi-Wan walked in.

“I _know_ you can both help,” she turns to smile, tight but genuine. She’s tired. “This is just easier.” With that, she takes off. Anakin clings to the echo of her platforms down the hallway, unable to hide her concern. Still no farther from the doorway, Obi-Wan coughs. Anakin flushes bright crimson, wincing internally as he remembers what he walked in on.

“Listen, Ben, what you saw wasn't- we didn't-”

He holds up his hand up, silencing the Jedi. “You needn’t justify yourself to me,” he says lightly, though Anakin catches the hurt in his eyes. He turns to face the doorway, and Anakin knows the only reason he doesn't leave is because he was told not to. “Your personal affairs are none of my business, I assure you.”

Okay, now, that… _that_ was bitter. He isn't even hiding it now. “That’s not fair,” Anakin mutters before he can stop himself. His face pulls into a tight grimace when he hears himself (Force, is he always this _whiny_?) but it's too late to stop now. Heart lurching in his chest, he crosses the room until he's right behind the Sith.

“Kenobi,” his voice is soft, the words a breath on the shorter man’s neck. Still, he is unmoved. Anakin sighs, reaching for Obi-Wan’s wrist with his cybernetic joints. His grip isn’t rough- at least, he hopes not. It’s just enough to get his attention.

Obi-Wan turns around, fixates his eyes on Anakin’s robotic grip with something of a glare. It would be a convincing show, were it not for the tremor in his skin. “What,” he says, not a question.

Anakin feels his chest hammering. He can think of a thousand things he, a Jedi knight, could be doing right now- few of which involve reconciling with a Sith Lord. Fewer still, on that list, involve very distinct amounts of sexual tension. There’s a voice in his head telling him to turn back, to let Obi-Wan think whatever the hell he wants about what he saw. That would correspond the most with his training… leaving an evil Sith to writhe in emotional turmoil. Though… that couldn’t be right, could it? What about compassion? Surely that’s something he could display to every living thing… not just those aligned with him. This is far too confusing for his tastes, he realizes, especially when he's already made it this far with little to no regard for the Code.

So that settles it, then.

“Please look at me,” Anakin releases all of his pride into these words, shoulders slumping. His guard is dropping even as he tensely watches Obi-Wan reluctantly face him. “I know that you think- that you saw-” He’s losing his resolve quickly, organic fist shaking at his sides. “I-”

Obi-Wan grumbles, “I don’t have time for this,” even as their closeness makes him shake. Anakin knows he still has a chance, knows he can say exactly what he needs to. If there ever was a time, this would be it. That’s probably why Padmé left them alone, he realizes. He swallows. This is it.

The next thing to come out of his mouth needs to be perfect and calculated, because it holds the power to make or break, well, _everything_. But there's something different this time, something that makes him more tense than reciting his feelings to Padmé even if his feelings for both are the same. It might be the way he can feel the Sith breathe, or the tiniest bit of vulnerability in his eyes, or the way his hair is just barely in his eyes. Either way, his breath catches.

“Sand,” he says, louder than he means to. It's the only word he can think of. He opens his mouth to elaborate the moment that he realizes he’s fucked it up, but nothing else comes out. Obi-Wan’s staring. _Kriff_.

To his surprise, Obi-Wan laughs. In theory, this would relieve tension; that’s really only true on Obi-Wan’s end. It’s a bit belittling, the way the man roars at his mistake without apology. Anakin heats up from head to toe.

“‘Sand’?” the Sith repeats, slipping out of his grip in the process. “Really, Anakin, you come all this way with a grand scheme and that as your focal point? Oh, you must be so proud.” He throws his head forward, has to turn away to lean against the door frame for support. Anakin hopes this is for show. He’s said _much_ stupider things and received less of a response for them.

“I didn't _scheme_ any of this,” comes his immediate argument. His eyes can't rise beyond the floor. “This isn't what I wanted.”

The Sith turns around then, slow and purposeful, nearly daring Anakin to look at him. Which he does without argument, matching his eyes. His heart pounds. His head throbs.

“Then tell me, Ani,” the word passes the Sith’s lips slowly, slow enough that Anakin can catch the tip of his tongue on the edge of his lips, dark and powerful and everything Anakin shouldn't want but does, and he suppresses a shiver in response. “What is it that you want?”

“I…” Anakin shouldn't have to think about this, should have Jedi principles and desires down to a fault, but he _doesn’t._ “I don’t know.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan asks like a challenge. “Surely there’s something.”

It’s a rhetorical question, Anakin knows, but it’s a good point. This whole time- his whole life- he's been trying to plan things. Failing, mostly, but still _trying_. Maybe that's his problem. Maybe if he’d acted on impulse years ago, he wouldn't be in this situation now. The argument makes enough sense, at least in the moment. So, he doesn't think. He glances down Kenobi’s form and bites his lip, perhaps more overtly than he’d intended.

He acts.

“Well-” he stammers out, immediately grabbing Obi-Wan’s face in both hands. He’s in motion, now, and he doesn't stop for Obi-Wan to say anything other than " _oh-!_ " in response, and then their lips are smashing together with more aggression than Anakin’s put forth for anything, ever. Even in his apparent surprise, Obi-Wan is kissing back almost instantly. His beard scratches Anakin's skin, the slight sting a reminder that this is actually _real_. They move in perfect sync, pouring years of tension and want into each other’s open mouths. The Sith moves one hand to grab Anakin’s waist, the other sliding aggressively (though certainly not unpleasantly) into his hair. Anakin’s never been so grateful that he left it long, knowing that the directions he’s being given are much easier now than they may have been. Obi-Wan takes control easily, shoving him against the nearest wall with authority and claim; Anakin's knees feel weak.

“Ben,” he moans, once, sinking against the wall. His eyes flutter, open and shut, ceding all control to the Sith.

Obi-Wan stops, takes Anakin’s face in both hands. His lips are bright red, not yet swollen (though Anakin knows the signs, knows that's coming). His fingers brush the younger’s cheeks, then cling to them. His lip trembles, his tongue tracing its edges. “Anakin,” he says at last, nearly a whisper. A psalm. “Oh, Anakin, _my_ Anakin.” His expression turns to a tight smirk as he watches Anakin respond to the possession, the claim. Anakin's hands shake at his sides, his heart pounds. Obi-Wan just looks at him for a moment, a sort of softness to the gold in his eyes. Then, pulling them close together, he gets back to work.

With one arm on either side of him, Anakin is completely open- both in body language and mind. He feels something, an unfamiliar presence, enter his mind without hesitation. It’s soothing, in a way, something dark and cloudy coming over his senses. He’s uncertain of its source for a moment, leaning the slightest fraction away from the Sith to puzzle on it. But the man before him just scoffs, pulling Anakin into another fierce kiss and trailing the outside corners of his lips with his tongue. Anakin feels the new part of his senses spread themselves out, territorial and possessive and… exactly reflective of Obi-Wan’s present actions.

Oh.

They’re bonded now.

Anakin shudders at the realization, hands scrambling as he leans forward to take in the Sith. He buries his face into Obi-Wan’s shoulder, feels blinded by the light in the Force. He gasps against the skintight fabric, taking in the man’s physical warmth as well as his glowing signature. Obi-Wan grabs Anakin’s chin with no lack of power and jerks upward, forcing him to face him directly. Anakin thinks he might say something, but instead he just pulls him into another kiss. He feels a chill run up his spine just the same.

Obi-Wan’s lips trail all over, then, tracing the outer corners of Anakin’s mouth and descending still. Anakin moans, tries to make it sound the way he’s been led to believe these things are supposed to sound, but it just comes out as whine. He can feel Obi-Wan’s pleasure increasing through the Force, just as real as the feeling of a tongue running down his neck. There’s a soft scratch of beard around it- which Anakin also responds quite positively to- and then, without warning, he feels teeth clamp down on his neck. If what happened last time was a moan, then this time Anakin screams. He feels the beginnings of tears in the corners of his eyes, squeezing them shut as he grabs the cloth on Obi-Wan’s back. His body tenses, then relaxes, curled up against Obi-Wan’s and touching him at every possible place it can. The Sith continues down his neck, kissing and claiming and leaving marks that Anakin knows he should be worried about, but then he’s stopped by the fabric of his tunic.

“Shirt,” he says, something between a tactile whisper and a feral growl. Anakin hears the word, feels its implications, but takes a moment too long to comprehend what it means. Once he does, he struggles to move quickly. He pushes Obi-Wan back, just enough that he actually has room to do what he has to. He handles his belt with care, but that’s about it; his tunic falls to the ground, immediately disregarded. In this time, Obi-Wan pulls his robe and vest off as well. He goes to pull Anakin back in, but stops at the sight of his chest binder.

Anakin wishes he doesn’t hesitate, wishes he can say later that he just went along willingly with whatever Obi-Wan had in store. But he does hesitate, hands frozen on the fastens on the front of his binder for a moment when time stops. He knows that he’s taking too long, but the specifics are lost on him. Something shifts in the Force for an unidentifiable instant. It’s almost nothing, only that it isn’t nothing at all; Anakin feels a short burst of two differing emotions. The first one is ravenously impatient, a silent scream that in its own right seems permanently malcontented. The other is much softer, almost to the point of subtlety: a note of sympathy. Not understanding, not by a long shot, but something deeper and, frankly, more genuine. Even though it’s gone the moment it comes, Anakin keeps the feeling with him and tries not to lock eyes with Obi-Wan as his hands reconfigure.

He’s careful, still, but very much more cooperative, coughing in time with the reveal of his breasts. They’re not particularly pleasant to look at, lined with consistent scarring from years of both battle damage and ace bandages. But thankfully, Obi-Wan doesn’t take the time to hesitate. His lips tug upward into a very smug smile, and then in the blink of an eye he has Anakin slammed against the wall with one arm. And it doesn't exactly help that he whispers “ _good boy_ ,” which sends him absolutely reeling. Anakin’s feet don’t even touch the ground; at first, it’s through the Force, levitating in a way he’s never even thought to experience before, and then it’s because his legs are hooked inelegantly around Obi-Wan’s waist. There’s an invisible hand on either side of him to keep him supported, while two actual hands cup his tits and squeeze them without caution. Anakin cries out, face sinking into Obi-Wan’s auburn hair as he tries to catch his breath. He fails, and his fingers dig into his shoulders. Obi-Wan gasps slightly at the touch, but otherwise isn’t swayed. He dips his head down, pressing headlong kisses down his chest. Anakin isn’t sure what his game is until he feels perfectly calloused lips circle one of his nipples and suck, hard. He gasps, body overcome with blissful passion as he writhes in Obi-Wan’s clutches. Their crotches come into contact like an instinct, the feeling of Obi-Wan’s hard dick against him almost natural. Obi-Wan humps him with intensity, his expression matching it when their eyes meet. Anakin can only hope his tears have blended into the beads of sweat that flow down his face. He may be imagining it for his own sake, but he thinks he sees the same track of fresh tears around Obi-Wan’s eyes. Anakin moves his hand to wipe them away, his breath steadying as he pulls the Sith in for one last kiss. Something about it must feel different than the others, because he notices the Force gently setting him down on his feet.

They both pull away, faces flooded with gratitude and raw emotion. Neither says a word. Obi-Wan is the first to break the silence, though not with language. Instead, with nothing else to do, he laughs. Anakin has heard him laugh so many times over the years, but it's never sounded so… friendly and companionable, before. In pure instinct, he starts to laugh too. They both fill the air with a new sense of joy, raw emotion and... _love_ clearing their tensions away. His head rolls back as they both keep at it, smiling like one of them’s said a hilarious joke, their hands precariously entwined.

Anakin sighs and, once he's a little bit calmer, his lungs a little steadier, breathes out, “We should… probably… talk.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees, blinking once, slowly. “I suppose we should.” That's exactly what happens. Anakin steps away to retrieve his discarded garments, then follows Obi-Wan to the off-center couch in the room and settles into it. He clips his binder back into place, first, because he can't help himself. He watches Obi-Wan, waiting.

“For starters,” he says, pulling a face like he doesn't want to say what he's about to. “Ben isn't- I wasn't asking you to-” He sighs. “It's a family name.” Anakin nods, reaching his hand out for Obi-Wan to take hold of. He does take it, but instead tugs Anakin forward so that their chests are casually pressed together. It's very domestic. Anakin's cheeks flush, he's certain, but he doesn't argue.

“I think I’ve liked you since Aleen,” he counters, referring easily to their first meeting all those years ago. “Well, not _liked_ , but… I always knew you were different, that you’d change my life somehow.”

Obi-Wan laughs at that, in one short huff, but it quickly fades to a distraught frown. “I’ve done horrible things to you, Anakin,” he moves a hand up as though to stroke Anakin's hair, but it freezes at the last second, inches in front of the Jedi’s face.

“I know,” he answers, grabbing Obi-Wan’s hand and looking intently at it. It tenses for a moment, but then relaxes. It's different, now, he feels the Force whisper, and Anakin is unsure whether it's his own thought or one he intercepts from Obi-Wan.

“I may continue to,” Obi-Wan says. Anakin doesn't have the words to respond to that, so he just presses a soft kiss to Obi-Wan’s hand. Again he laughs, short and pleasant.

Anakin looks down at his own wrist, at the remaining evidence of his rope burns from earlier. He realizes with unpleasantness in his gut that Obi-Wan is right: even if they're together, they have roles to fulfill. They’ll have to fight and harm each other for the will of the Force just as frequently. In the same instant, though, he also realizes that he _doesn't care_. (In fact, there's only one person outside of this that he cares about right now, but that… isn't important.)

A yawn escapes him before he can conceal it, and Obi-Wan’s expression is immediately knit with concern. Come to think of it, Anakin has been awake for about thirty standard hours now. He's pulled worse stunts during battle, sure, but at a time like this it all seems so _unnecessary_ that Anakin can't even blame his fatigue for catching up to him. By the look of it, Obi-Wan can’t either.

“You should rest, dear one,” Obi-Wan brushes his lips to Anakin's forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake.” Anakin is pretty sure he's supposed to say no to that, but instead he curls up against Obi-Wan’s bare chest with a hum of submission. The Sith sends sweet nothings and validation through their bond, and Anakin is out cold within the half-hour.

☆☆☆☆

The door opens with a hiss; Obi-Wan stiffens as he watches Padmé enter the room, though he's careful not to jolt Anakin.

“Padmé,” he regards softly, her first name like a prayer on his lips. He glances down at the sleeping Jedi and she nods, seeming to get the message. She offers him a smile- a rare pleasantry, coming from the Empress- and there's a slight note of tiredness in it. Upon further examination, Obi-Wan learns that she's been injured- there are beginnings of a deep scar showing through on her right thigh, just above the knee. He doesn't dwell on it for desire to be respectful, of course. Instead, voice still hushed, he asks, “What of the hangar?”

Despite her wound, Padmé does not miss a stride as she moves closer. She shrugs easily. “Threat’s been neutralized. We’re safe from pursuit. Though…” as she trails off, Obi-Wan looks up at her, puzzled. “I’m certain that what went on here is much more interesting.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan flushes, and his face drifts again to Anakin. He pauses. “I suppose I spent so much time trying to kill him, that I failed to realize once I’d begun to care for him.”

“ _You_ failed to realize,” she murmurs, a short laugh escaping her. The sounds are just slightly above inaudible, which Obi-Wan can only assume is as purposeful as everything she does. She's merely a foot away from him now, looming above the two of them with unknown intent, and the combination of these two facts makes Obi-Wan feel very tense. The feeling doesn't improve as a long note of silence falls between them: a moment in which, to Obi-Wan’s dismay, he can't imagine a single positive outcome. He’s well aware that she's going to say he's weak, that he's jeopardizing everything they've worked for, and for what, some attachment? It’s true, after all- no part of a plan to overthrow the Jedi is helped when there's an actual Jedi in their midst. Obi-Wan doesn't know what he may say to defend himself, to defend Anakin, but he damn well knows that he's going to. He watches his master carefully, bracing himself for impact as she sighs, saying-

“He’s quite something, isn't he.”

It isn't a question, and it certainly isn't what Obi-Wan expected. He's caught off guard, one hand clenching protectively around Anakin’s cybernetic arm as it rests between them. “I-” he starts, and then, once everything catches up with him, he smiles fondly. “Yes.” His grip on Anakin loosens.

Padmé returns the expression, and then gestures to a small open space between Obi-Wan and the arm of the couch. “Move over.” He does so immediately, though careful not to stir Anakin too much. When the space is to Padmé’s liking, she plops into it with overflowing poise. She's very liberal about physical contact, Obi-Wan’s always known; this is reaffirmed as she reaches around his shoulders to card a perfectly manicured hand through the Jedi’s hair. His bare skin burns where it touches hers, and immediately his stare is aimed at the wall parallel to them. He feels Padmé's eyes on him, confident and considering, but chooses to ignore them. He's far too flustered to say anything worthwhile.

She breaks the silence. “You're a good man, Obi-Wan.”

He whips to face her. To say he hadn't expected that would be a massive understatement. “Sir?”

“A bit soft, perhaps, but… dedicated, trustworthy… I’m lucky to have you.” She does not say " _as an apprentice_ ," but Obi-Wan assumes it's implied. He nods to her, because it's the closest he can get to bowing that won't wake Anakin.

“Thank you, Master. I learned from the best.” He smiles, and Padmé immediately starts to laugh. It's simple, friendly... it may just be the lighting, but Obi-Wan swears that he sees her eyes sparkle. It feels like those eyes, gold-rimmed and dripping with power, were meant to present themselves like this. Obi-Wan can't look away.

(Elsewhere, at a later time, the two find themselves in bed together, Obi-Wan’s face buried deep in Padmé's thighs, lined with scars and stretch marks; Padmé's painted lips a perfect circle around his cock. There's a heavy scent of blood, and above them, a display of blades lay which have been put away too recently to not have seen recent use. Their hands are clasped together- a promise of unbreakable trust between them.)

Obi-Wan leans into Padmé's touch on his shoulder, and she lets him. It's warm, comforting. He feels calmer just with her presence, and that feeling, apparently, is mirrored through the Force. Padmé sighs contentedly.

“Rest,” she says, and he's known her long enough to know that it isn't a request. “You’ve done enough. I’ll keep watch.” Obi-Wan nods, and that's the end of it. He drifts to a state of unconsciousness with ease, most probably because he's sandwiched comfortably between the two people he cares for most. Falling asleep is easy.

He’d like to believe that at some point, Padmé can say the same.

☆☆☆☆

Anakin wakes up to the overwhelming sensation of warm. It’s blissful, to say the least. Comforting. He almost doesn't want to open his eyes, because whatever this warmth is could probably satisfy him forever.

“Look, Master, he’s up,” a whisper. A ghost of a touch on his bare skin. Then, suddenly, a memory. Anakin feels a hum in the Force, something affectionate. He remembers the night before, remembers his lips against Obi-Wan’s and his back against the wall. He thought he’d been dreaming, but this… it’s much better than that.

Without hesitation, he opens his eyes. He comprehends most things as a single blur, but still locates the auburn haired man within seconds. He lunges forward, lips against the his face wherever he can put them. His fingertips, not quite awake yet, latch onto the Sith’s skin, clinging to anything that proves he isn’t just dreaming. Obi-Wan laughs into a quick, reciprocated kiss. He sends a burst of reassurance into their new bond as well, but then his hands move to Anakin’s shoulders and push him back ever gently.

“Now, now,” he says, and the first thing Anakin’s eyes adjust to is his smile, soft and brilliant. “There’ll be plenty of time for that. For now, though, perhaps we should talk.” Anakin almost groans. He knows himself well enough that he’s sure that, this early, there’s almost nothing he could say to anyone that would make enough sense to be of value. Plus, the thought of doing anything other than kissing Obi-Wan feels like a fate worse than death. But he nods, because it stands to reason that the sooner this talk is over, the sooner early morning makeouts can commence.

Obi-Wan hums. “Good. First off, how are you feeling? Well rested, I hope?”

Anakin thinks that he says “I’m fine,” but is pretty sure that it comes out like “ _mfnn_.” Either way, Obi-Wan gets the message.

“Ah, I’m so glad to hear it,” the Sith’s smile is genuine. His hands, still resting on Anakin’s shoulders, give a gentle squeeze. Anakin can hardly say he’s conscious, but he appreciates the gesture regardless. “Now, I’m sure you have some questions - perhaps, for example, about the person on your other side.”

This gets Anakin’s attention. His eyes widen, body willing itself to wake up as defensive instincts kick in. His breaths come in short bursts and he bolts upright, whirling around to see slits of yellow eyes framed by a cascade of brown curls. Obi-Wan, sensing his anxiety, slips one hand into his. It eases him a bit, even if the blurred edges of his vision still can't make out the figure before him.

“Morning, Ani,” the stranger purrs, moving something which Anakin realizes is a manicured hand in his hair. He makes out the figure’s smile, somewhat smug, and the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.

Anakin flushes. “Padmé, I-”

“Shhhh.” Padmé holds up her free hand, silencing him. The space between them is mere inches already, but she makes the effort to lean in even more, making her intentions clearly known. Anakin glances into her eyes once, then down to the smudged remains of scarlet makeup on her lips, and understands. Closing the space is easy.

Padmé’s kiss is warm and gentle, so perfectly soft on Anakin’s skin. She takes nothing without permission, which he gives straight away. His lips, still cracked and bruised from the night before, part for her entrance without hesitation. Padmé’s tongue fills the space, and Anakin can identify the exact instant their dynamic shifts. She’s claiming him, now, taking every corner she can reach as her own. Her hand moves from his hair to his cheek, and he nods into the skin. Her teeth drag over his lips as her hand reaches his thigh. Her grip is tight, perhaps enough to leave a bruise, but Anakin wouldn’t have it any other way. He shivers; his trembling hand, still in Obi-Wan’s, clenches around the Sith.

Her shields in the Force are still present- because _of course_ they are, she’s the queen of everything- but Anakin still picks away at them. Padmé notices with something of a smirk and, well, Anakin can’t say he didn’t get what he asked for. He feels her emotions in affectionate waves, but as they get deeper he begins to burn. In her thoughts, he sees a vision of… himself, clad in dark robes, kneeling before the two of them. There’s a hunger in their eyes, but a pride, too; Anakin dares to look behind him and sees what can only be his handiwork: the Jedi Temple up in flames. He turns back to the two Sith lords, who draw him to his feet with lingering touches. Padmé grips him by both arms, pulls him to her, and whispers something in his ear. Her tongue traces the side of his head as they part, and her eyes seem to shine a bit brighter than before. The Anakin of the vision says two words, and though they can’t be heard the shape of them on his lips is unmistakable.

_Yes, Masters._

In the present, Anakin stumbles backward. He falls into Obi-Wan, who appears concerned above all else, but even that contact is too much. Neither Sith holds him back as he jumps to his feet and takes several steps away from the couch. Padmé stands, still towering over him, but does not move to follow him. Anakin struggles to find his bearings.

“I- what- what _was_ that?” he demands, choosing to ignore the crackle in his voice on the words.

Padmé and Obi-Wan exchange a glance, and one that makes Anakin very unsettled at that. “The future,” Padmé answers. “Well, a potential one at least.”

Obi-Wan stands now, hand slipping into Padmé’s like it belongs there. They look at each other again, this time for a long moment that Anakin would be remiss not to note the intimacy of. Even now, his thoughts clouded and fearful, he wants to be a part of what they have.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says his name with softness and reverence. He takes a step closer, the space between them dwindling. “I want to train you.”

Anakin sputters. “What?” The Sith steps forward again, Padmé releasing him to do so, and now he’s well into Anakin’s personal space. He cups his face with both hands, eyes softening into something wistful. Anakin lets him, though he does not lean into the touch. “My dear boy, you have a power that you can't even imagine. You’re already trained with a 'saber, of course, and your control of the Force is astounding, but you’ve only ever learned to do things one way. I would be honored to show you another.”

Anakin stares in disbelief, but he won't deny the rush of blood in his cheeks. Still, though… “Even if I wanted to.. join you,” he falters, barely finding a voice for these words at all. “What about the _Rule of Two_?” He glances cautiously at Padmé now, and she laughs. It’s boisterous, almost. Unprecedented. She’s the one to move close now, but she does not move so confidently into Anakin’s space. Instead she drapes her arms over Obi-Wan, settling behind him as a distinguished blush captures his features.

Having realized that her laughter confused Anakin, Padmé stops dead. “Sorry,” she says softer, almost genuine. “But you can’t actually be expecting us to follow conventional rule, are you?”

Anakin, not knowing any better, nods.

Padmé smiles again, looks as though she might laugh at Anakin’s ignorance. She does, but this time it’s different. Sadder, maybe. “Ani,” she starts again, reaching to touch his arm. He lets her, finds comfort in her fingertips drumming on his bare skin. “Rules don’t take kindly to us. Obi-Wan is eleven years my senior, yet I’ve taught him everything he knows. We’ve thwarted our own plans on multiple occasions for the safety of Jedi lives. Well…” she trails off, meeting Anakin’s eyes with a sheepishness in her own. His cheeks heat immediately. “One Jedi.” Obi-Wan nods, his own hands moving to brush Anakin’s curls from his face. Anakin’s eyes flutter closed, taking in the feeling of the Sith’s touch. Obi-Wan and Padmé move in, so close to Anakin’s lips, so attainable. He thinks he can taste their breath.

“Besides,” Padmé continues, just above a whisper. Each word comes softer than the last, in anticipation for- Anakin isn’t sure what. But he’s ready just the same. “My position above the Sith, as their Queen, is all the permission I need. If I say the Rule has changed, they will listen.” Now she isn’t even audible, but she sends him a last word through their signature. The Force bends to my will. Anakin gasps, unable to stop himself, head tilted backwards. Padmé reaches out quickly, grabs the Jedi by the hairs of the nape of his neck. She pulls him close, lips pursing. On either side of Anakin, she and Obi-Wan lean in.

“Join us,” Obi-Wan adds, a plea. His hand holds Anakin’s chin, thumb tracing the outline of his cheek. “Please…” It’s the last thing he hears before they move to kiss him. His hands ball into fists at his sides as, eyes still closed, he feels darkness swirl around him. Anakin would swear there was someone else in the room, the presence of Force users much too strong to be only three. Yet somehow it is, and Anakin wants to be every part of it. He does, truly; wants to seal this deal with a kiss, fall on the ground before the both of them and grovel until they reshape his being, make him who they think he has the potential to be. All he has to do is lean in, send his confirmation through the Force. It’s one word, maybe two if he’s respectful. _Yes, please_. He opens his mouth just slightly, just enough.

_Yes._

_Please._

His mouth moves to form the words, but sound does not come out. His eyes open, watching the two Sith warily. Instead of what he wants to say, what would be so much easier, the sound he can manage is something else entirely.

“I can’t,” he sighs, pulling away a fraction. Both of them look disappointed, of course, but Obi-Wan seems to be taking it especially hard. He shakes his head, face twisting into betrayal as he, too, increases their distance.

“You’re making a mistake…” he swears, features unbreaking. Padmé gives him a look as he does so, her disapproval clear. He makes no note of it. “The Jedi treat you like nothing, yet you’d throw away your life for them?”

Anakin shakes his head, wishing he can say it’s the only part of him that shakes. But, no, there’s a tremor in his features that he’s sure is obvious. “You don’t understand. The Order is my life,” he explains. “It’s flawed, of course,” with this he glances between the two of them; glances as if, in the negative space, he can see the attachments they’ve formed, “but without their guidance I would be nothing. I… I’d still be on Tattooine.” He wants to look down, would rather deal with anything than eye contact in this moment, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Obi-Wan. The man is not swayed. In fact, he seems to look more angry now.

“Still be on-” he repeats, incredulous. “Anakin, Padmé was there!” He gestures to her, but does not stop to read the look she carries. She doesn’t want to be a part of this, it’s clear in her face as well as the Force, both stony and uninvolved. Still, Obi-Wan continues. “You truly believe that your ‘Council’ watched over you, that they held your fate? Those Force-sensitive _fools_ have done nothing for you! They’ve damaged you and belittled you and blinded you to our ways- to the right ways of the Force!” He takes a step closer to Anakin now, and raises his hand- not in use of the Force, but in exclamation. Anakin flinches back anyway, his eyes not leaving the calloused fingertips. He feels something in the Force as he does, a layer of rage that wasn’t there before. It isn’t his, and it wouldn’t be Obi-Wan’s, so-

“Padawan!” Padmé cries out, and Obi-Wan halts immediately. “Control yourself. This decision is not yours to make. Anakin will decide on his own if he is to join our path. And you-” she moves into his personal space now. She’s authoritative in her stance, confident and demanding. Flames of anger burn around her; anyone with brains would know not to get close. Obi-Wan straightens his posture, but the challenge of it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You will learn your place if I have to show it to you _personally_.” The threat lands heavy, and Anakin wonders if his heart is supposed to pound this much just from watching its delivery. Obi-Wan looks at Padmé defiantly for a moment, but the fire fades from his gaze as soon as it comes.

“I…” he sighs. “You’re right, Master.” She seems satisfied with that, if the change in her posture is any indication. “And, Anakin, if you’ll allow me to-”

“It’s fine,” Anakin cuts him off, more because he doesn't want to have this conversation than anything else. Of course, he understands that Obi-Wan has good intentions in mind, and that he has a few good points, but… it’s hard. He’s already defied the Code so much, but to just _leave_? He couldn’t possibly bear the stress. He sighs and turns to Padmé, takes her hand in his. “Thank you,” he says. “For understanding. I know that you want what you think is best- both of you- but I just don’t think I can follow your path.

“It isn't that I don't agree, it’s just- the Jedi Order has been the only consistency in my life for so long and it’s… home. I can’t betray it.” To the untrained eye, the two Sith have not changed their expressions. But Anakin sees and takes note of the slightest change- a newfound weariness, a defeated sort of sadness. He takes Obi-Wan’s hand in his other, then, cybernetic joints locking to a place of intimacy. He seems surprised, looking at Anakin with questioning eyes. “But I want to be with you both,” he continues, trying to fit a smile into his expression. “I-” he pulls both of their hands to his chest. Padmé reaches and feels his heartbeat. His chest already hammers with the weight of imminent confession, but now there’s a dull sort of ache where she rests. He sucks in a breath, looks them both in the eyes, “I love you.”

Padmé and Obi-Wan look at each other, communicating something which Anakin can’t even begin to interpret. But then they each break out into a grin, not mischievous or discordant, but… soft. Genuine. In unison, they speak:

“We know.”

Anakin laughs, the short softness of it puffing his chest out ever slightly. He isn't sure why he does it, exactly, but something in their tone gives him a sense of nostalgia for another time. He doesn't know what to make of it. He drops their two hands, instead pulling them into a tight embrace. He feels their smiles in the crook of his neck. He feels their sadness in the Force.

“How the kriff is this going to work?” he asks, unable to keep his voice from cracking.

Padmé sighs into him, but stops short. There's determination in her now as she leaves a trace of vibrant lipstick pressed to Anakin’s cheek. “We’ll make it work,” she states it like a fact. Like nothing in this universe could tear them apart. Obi-Wan nods into his skin, holding to it. For a moment, fleeting as it could prove to be, Anakin believes them.

“Um,” Anakin starts again, gently breaking from the embrace. The tremor in his voice is replaced with something fond. “You said it was up to me where we’re headed. I… think it’s time I get back to the Temple.”

Padmé nods and gives him a gentle, diplomatic smile. “Of course. Obi-Wan?” He stands at attention, though not too stiffly. There’s affection in his stance, a sort of confidence that wasn't there the night before. “Yes, Sir?”

“Set a course for Coruscant.”

He nods. The Sith leans upward, and with a swift kiss to Padmé’s cheek, he’s out of the room.

☆☆☆☆

Even with light speed, the journey takes a few standard hours. The three of them, far displaced from any part of the galaxy they might know, spend the time enjoying each other’s company. They’re piled onto the couch, limbs tangled into a mess of stolen kisses and ecstasy. The Empress pours each of them a glass of wine, a symbol. She raises her glass.

“To Ani,” she toasts, her smile intoxicatingly warm for that of a sober woman.

Anakin laughs, but shakes his head. “To _us_ ,” he corrects.

They all drink. The wine tastes of the stars that surround them, of deep catharsis. Of love.

Obi-Wan leaves their cuddled mess (with great difficulty and a bit of wine spilling) and goes to land the ship. Anakin thinks he hears him mutter something about flying being for droids, but he has more pressing matters to attend to.

He’s the next one to untangle from the couch, moving to gather up his discarded clothing. Padmé wraps her arms around his waist from behind, the smooth silk of her gown rubbing against his back. He turns to face her and they share a kiss, passionate and longing. He says in the Force, _I wish I could stay_. In his mouth, her tongue agrees.

He pulls away and dresses himself. Padmé makes no effort to conceal it as she watches him. Anakin’s skin is scarlet.

The ship lands, and Obi-Wan rejoins them. The trio walks arm-in-arm to the hangar. Anakin doesn't ask about the bloodstains that weren't there when he entered, nor the faint scent of death.

He turns to face them, tries to ignore the way his hands shake. “I guess this is it,” his voice is heavy. Obi-Wan takes his hand and soothes the tremor. He pulls it to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to Anakin's knuckles. “Until we meet again, dear one.” He offers a reassuring smile.

Padmé waves her hand. Anakin thinks she means it as a goodbye, but then the door opens to a ramp. The Force has bent to her will without question. He sighs, squares his shoulders, and descends out onto the bustling streets of his home planet. He turns to look behind him one last time, and he thinks he sees Padmé wink. The door shuts and the ship takes its leave. Anakin can't pull his eyes away.

He sighs again, this time for good measure. He has a bus to catch to the Jedi Temple, to the remains of his future.

He can do this.

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaaa oh my god! you guys have no idea how excited i am that this!! is finally!! posted!! ive been workshopping this idea since spring break of 2016 and nearly ten months later its an actual thing that exists in the world??? so thats cool!
> 
> seriously though, the amount of worldbuilding that went into this is ungodly in its elaborateness, so please comment if you have any questions! tho i should warn you, i do have at least 6 more fics planned for this series, so ur questions might get answered along the way... but regardless i super dont mind answer them! i love attention lmao
> 
> speaking of, you can also always hit me up on tumblr at spaceysharkyuris! ill answer questions there, or just talk abt anything else! if you have the type of interests that allowed you to get to the end of this 18k pile of feelings, i can almost guarantee that we have enough in common to be friends :^)
> 
> oh also, ben's sith name is from ao3 user mengde ! its a super good one
> 
> i guess thats it!! thank you all for reading!


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